Веснушки

           Frecklestriedtothinkconnectedly,butthereweretoomanyplacesonthetrailwheretheAngel’sfootprintswerevetvisible.Shehadsteppedinonemuckyspotandleftasharpimpression.Theafternoonsunhadbakedithard,andthehorses’hoofshadnotobliteratedanypartofit,astheyhadinsomanyplaces.Frecklesstoodfascinated,gazingatit.Hemeasureditlovinglywithhiseye.Hewouldnothaveventuredacaressonherhatanymorethanonherperson,butthiswasdifferent.Surelyafootprintonatrailmightbelongtoanyonewhofoundandwantedit.Hestoopedunderthewiresandenteredtheswamp.Withalittlesearching,hefoundabigpieceofthickbarklooseonalogandcarefullypeelingit,carrieditoutandcoveredtheprintsothatthefirstrainwouldnotobliterateit.

           Whenhereachedhisroom,hetenderlylaidthehatuponhisbookshelf,andtowearoffhisawkwardness,mountedhiswheelandwentspinningontrailagain.Itwaslikeflying,forthepathwaswornsmoothwithhisfeetandbakedhardwiththesunalmostalltheway.Whenhecametothebark,heveeredfartoonesideandsmiledatitinpassing.Suddenlyhewasoffthewheel,kneelingbesideit.Heremovedhishat,carefullyliftedthebark,andgazedlovinglyattheimprint.

           “Iwonderwhatshewasgoingtosayofmevoice,”hewhispered.“Shenevergotitsaid,butfromthefaceofher,Ibelieveshewaslikingitfairlywell.PerhapsshewasgoingtosaythatsingingwasthebigthingIwastobedoing.That’swhattheyallthoughtattheHome